The Book of Joby (87 page)

“There is no substitute in my opinion,” he concurred pleasantly, ushering her into the living room, where she took a seat. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No. I won’t be staying long.”

The urge to smile returned.

“Actually,” she said, getting out her checkbook, “there was one other issue I was hoping to discuss.”

The urge to smile vanished.

“I’ve penned a short letter to the county sheriff, asking that he give more careful consideration to our request for local law enforcement.” Her pen paused above the check. “To whom do I make this out?” she asked.

“James Moss,” Ferristaff said politely, wondering if she really thought writing a check to some employee of his was going to move him to her cause. “No, wait,” he said. “Better make it out to Alice Moss. It may be a while before Jim can cash it very easily.”

“Of course,” she said, scribbling in the remaining details and reaching up to hand the check to him.

Covering his surprise at the five-figure amount, he said, “That’s very generous.”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” she said, grimacing another smile, “I can be very generous, where generosity is deserved.” She put away her pen and checkbook. “As I was saying, I suspect my letter might get more attention if it were clear that I’m not speaking solely on my own behalf, so I’m inviting a number of other influential members of the community to sign it. Quite a few of Taubolt’s business people already have.”

Of course they have,
thought Ferristaff,
you’re their landlord.
Though he didn’t doubt that many of them had signed it willingly enough. He, himself, had managed, until now, to dodge this issue, having learned long ago that inviting law enforcement in the door could cut both ways. Not all of his
own men were scrupulous law-abiders, as that damn circus in September had demonstrated.

“I thought, especially after what’s been done to your poor Mr. Moss, that you might want to sign it too, Robert. I’m sure it must frustrate you terribly that the perpetrators of that heinous crime are still at large.”

“There’s only one perpetrator,” Ferristaff said. “And I know damn well who she is, pardon my language.”

“Not at all, Robert,” she replied. “I assume you mean that Greensong woman.”

“Of course I do,” Ferristaff growled. “And to be honest, Agnes, I’m not sure why the expense and effort of importing an entire standing police force should be required to subdue one twiggy little ecoterrorist. There are investigators working on it, and when they find the evidence to prove what everyone already knows, they’ll have no trouble coming out here to arrest her.”

“That assumes, of course, that you are correct in assuming it was her,” she said.

“Who else would it be?” he asked, careful to keep the scorn from his voice.

“As your flyer intimated,” Agnes sighed, “the woman has attracted quite a few youthful disciples. Two of them were with her during that . . . unfortunate event last month, weren’t they? Could none of them have been involved?”

“I have no reason to suspect that mere children—”

“I am not referring to
mere children,
” she cut him off with startling sharpness. “There are some very nasty creatures roaming this pleasant little town in children’s clothing, Robert, but they are in no way
mere children.
They’ve inflicted countless acts of truly hateful vandalism on many of our shop owners, and regularly terrorize their customers in broad daylight. Just last night they virtually demolished my own house.”

Ah!
Ferristaff thought dryly. He’d read her little letter to the editor, and he thought her more brainless than blameless there.

“I see no reason to assume that driving spikes into a handful of your trees would be beyond them. Not at all,” she said, seeming sure she’d made her point. “Were there any real threat of consequences here, I think we might see a very significant decrease in the troubles that increasingly plague us all.”

He was drawing breath to express polite condolences about her house, and demure her request, when a horrendous crash caused them both to spin and stare in shock at the scattered shards of glass that remained of one of his large picture windows, and the large rock resting at the center of the mess.

“Goddamn her!”
Ferristaff raged, running to the shotgun he now kept by his front door, then racing outside in hopes of settling this escalating nonsense in the good old-fashioned way. He found no one to aim at, of course. The woods around his property were as still and silent as ever.
“Greensong, you bitch!”
he shouted.
“I know it’s you! Everybody knows! Your butt is bound for prison any day now!”
Unable to contain his rage, he fired both shells into the trees, hoping for a scream. But there was nothing. When he turned around, he found Hamilton standing on his porch, looking gallingly self-satisfied. “What the hell,” he spat. “Put me on your roster. I’ll sign the damn letter.”

“I’m so sorry about your window, Robert,” she commiserated. “But I do appreciate your help. I’ll send the letter by tomorrow.”

“Gonna do some painting,” Cotter explained with an uncomfortable grin, shoving two gallons of paint thinner onto the counter. “Time to spruce up the mission a little.”

“Looks like you’ll be sprucin’ up things more’n a little.” Franklin grinned, trying to be friendly, though Cotter had always given him the creeps.

“Gonna take a lot of painting, that old place,” Cotter said defensively. “Inside and out, you know.”

“Outside too!” Franklin said, trying to sound impressed. “Gotten that past Hamilton’s Preservation Council, have you?” He gave Cotter a sympathetic smile to show he understood how trying that must have been.

But Cotter shook his head, and said, “That’s next on my list to do.”

“Oh,” Franklin said, nonplussed, as Cotter paid him. “
After
the thinner?”

“Well . . . I can’t get the paint ’til the Preservation Council tells me what color’s okay, now can I?” Cotter sputtered irritably.

“Hey,” Franklin apologized. “Didn’t mean to pry, friend. Just makin’ small talk.”

“No harm done,” Cotter said, leaving with his thinner, but forgetting his change.

As twilight approached, Joby and Ben finally heard the falls ahead of them, having walked for half an hour in apprehensive silence.

“Maybe I should go up first and check things out,” Ben suggested quietly.

“Yeah,” Joby teased uneasily. “Then they can knock us off separately.” He looked up into the woods overhanging the path; always so peaceful and picturesque before, they seemed full of lurking shadows now. “If they want to hurt me, they’ve had years to do it. . . . I just hope Ander shows up at all when he sees you.”

They crested one last rise and stood looking down on the ferny hollow into which Burl Creek plunged in lacy veils. A primitive wooden bridge spanned the pool beneath it, and, leaning heavily against the bridge’s railing, stood the last person Joby had expected. Father Crombie looked up at them, and waved.

“What are
you
doing here?” Joby called.

“How’d you
get
here?” Ben added, before the old man could answer.

“Waiting for you, of course. And rather carefully,” Crombie said amiably.

Unsure whether to feel relieved or dismayed that even Father Crombie was involved, Joby said, “I was expecting—”

“Ander,” Crombie finished with a kindly smile. “I know. But it was decided I might be the better messenger, given our long acquaintance.” As Joby and Ben descended toward the bridge, Crombie’s smile faded. “You boys look as if I were a ghost.”

“What about your hips?” Joby asked uncertainly. “I mean, I thought you were . . .”

“A cripple?” Crombie smiled. “I am, and had a great deal of help getting up here, of course. Now, please, relax—both of you.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” Joby asked, wondering if anyone in Taubolt
hadn’t
been deceiving him, “or just give me the runaround again?”

Father Crombie’s expression grew sober. “I am prepared to tell you a great deal more than you may wish to hear,” he said. “No one has ever wished to deceive you, Joby. But neither did we wish to trouble you with burdens that were not yours to bear. Even now, I must warn you that the answers you seek may leave you far more troubled than continued ignorance will. Are you really certain that you wish to know?”

Ben’s laughter surprised them both. “Bull elephants couldn’t drag me away without an answer now, Father. So, what’s the story? You all Martians, or what?”

Father Crombie had the grace to smile. “Come, boys. This will likely be a rather lengthy conversation, and these old legs are no longer fit to stand through such endeavors. Let’s find a place to sit while I abuse your credulity.” He turned carefully, and began shuffling toward the far end of the bridge.

After exchanging a look, Joby and Ben followed him toward a jumble of fallen logs and mossy stumps. After helping Crombie to get seated, they found perches for themselves, facing him with their backs to the creek.

“I recall that you boys were fairly comfortable with miracles once,” Crombie said after a reflective pause. “Do you remember asking me how to fight the devil?”

Joby felt his face grow warm. “We were little kids,” he mumbled.

“And have you never found children wiser than their elders?” Crombie asked.

Joby shrugged uncomfortably.

“You asked that morning if the chalice in my sacristy was the Grail. Remember?”

Ben chuckled under his breath, intensifying Joby’s embarrassment.

“What if I told you that the Grail is no myth, nor the devil, angels, or magic itself?” Crombie asked. “Could you still gather enough of that childish faith to trust me?”

“What are you saying?” Ben laughed. “That what Joby saw was
magic
?”

Crombie simply gazed at them with a kind of severity that made it seem he was saying exactly that and expected to be taken seriously.

“You don’t mean
magic
magic,” Joby insisted, “ . . . do you?”

“I suppose I should begin by telling you a story that you’ll likely find still harder to believe. I ask only that you listen until I’m through. Then you may write me off as mad and walk away, or . . . you can tell me how much more you wish to know. Agreed?”

Joby and Ben nodded together.

“Then, here is a bit of history I’m sure you’ve never been taught, though I’ve acquired ample reason to believe it true. I assume you boys have heard somewhere how the archangel Lucifer made war against God in Heaven when humanity was young.”

Joby nodded. Ben shrugged.

“You may recall that Lucifer and the angels who sided with him were cast down to earth in defeat, like stars swept from the sky, to become the demons of Hell.”

“What’s that got to do with Taubolt?” Ben asked gruffly, clearly as uncomfortable with these old catechisms as Joby was.

“What’s been forgotten,” Crombie continued unperturbed, “is that a third group of angels sided at first with Lucifer, then, realizing their error, turned to fight at God’s side against him. To this day, I am told, Lucifer blames his defeat on their defection.”

“Told by
who
?” Joby blurted out. “I mean, who’d have been there to know?”

“Their descendants,” Crombie said gravely, “whose very survival depends on passing down the memory of Lucifer’s enmity even now, all these millennia later.”

“Their
descendants
?” Ben scoffed.

“You agreed to listen,” Crombie reminded him gently.

Joby saw the muscles in Ben’s jaw clamp down around some further protest.

“Since they had sided with Lucifer, impartial justice demanded that this third angelic faction be cast to earth as well. But the change of heart that had led to their timely shift of allegiance also preserved them from becoming demons like Lucifer and his kind. Though barred from returning to Heaven, they still enjoyed the same rapport with their Creator that every other earthly creature does. They chose to make of their new home here, not a prison, but a garden reflecting what they recalled of Heaven, filling it with beauty and what we call magic, though to them it was no more magic than speech, thought, or breath are to us.